


Will it be of comfort

by Builder



Series: Pantherverse [2]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Is a Good Bro, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Vomiting, White Wolf - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 13:44:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14619842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Bucky lost a lot of himself, but some parts remain.  He still knows kindness.  He knows how to help people.So when T'Challa is ill, Bucky does what friends do.





	Will it be of comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr @builder051

T’Challa’s about to gather his things and leave when Okoye steps into the doorway.

“Yes?” T’Challa says, quickly sitting up straight and removing the arm wrapped around his stomach.

“The White Wolf to see you,” she announces.  She narrows her eyes at T’Challa.  “But I can turn him away.”

“No, show him in.”  T’Challa shuffles a few papers and prototypes to clear a space on the desk in front of him.  “We have things to discuss.”

“Are you sure?” Okoye asks.

T’Challa wipes his wrist over his forehead, in case she can see the glistening of clammy sweat.  “Yes.  I am fine.”  He regrets saying it, though.  She didn’t ask.  And it’s what people tend to say when they’re less than fine.

But the ache in his stomach, the visage of fever around his head, it’s nothing.  He’s just finished meeting with an expert on the growing threat of ISIS.  He’s just about to meet with a man who’s survived the abuses of HYDRA.  In the grand scheme of things, a bout of common illness is nothing.  He can deal with it.

Okoye gives him a tight-lipped expression, but nods.  “I will show him in.”  She disappears for a moment, then returns with Sargent Barnes.  The man looks small and demure, despite being a head taller than the general.  Perhaps it’s the way he stares at the floor, or the way he walks toe-heel to keep from making a sound.

“White wolf,” T’Challa greets him, gesturing to a chair on the other side of the desk.

“Your highness,” Barnes whispers.  He inclines his head.  It’s more than a nod, and less than a bow.  He stays semi-hunched as he takes the seat.

“Thank you,” T’Challa says to Okoye.  She pulls the door shut behind her, and T’Challa leans forward to rest his elbows on the desk.

“So,” he addresses Barnes.  “You are enjoying staying in the village?  I hear you are quite a help on the farm.”

He smells a bit of sweat and damp earth.  Barnes shifts and self-consciously pulls a piece of straw out of the folds of the scarf looped around his chest.  “Oh.”  He seems to fight a smile, then softy says, “Yeah.  I am.”

T’Challa smiles back, but it almost becomes a grimace as his stomach cramps.  His jaw feels tight as he opens his mouth to speak.  “You’ve been getting along quite well.”  He gestures to Barnes’s stump arm, obscured in drapes of cloth.  “But Shuri has been working on a project for you, if you are interested.”

The last word comes out clipped as a sick belch escapes into his throat.  T’Challa holds his fist to his mouth against the sour taste.  He should say ‘excuse me,’ but he doesn’t want to call attention to it.  So he doesn’t say anything.

“I, um…”  Barnes looks down at his lap, then at T’Challa.  “Are…are you alright?”

T’Challa’s cheeks grow warmer.  , his stomach writhes and sends his throat into contraction, as if Barnes’s question was an invitation.  T’Challa swallows hard and forces out, “Yes.  I am fine.  I apologize.”  He wraps his arm around his stomach under the desk.

Barnes slowly shakes his head.  “No.  You’re not feeling good,” he states simply

T’Challa’s body agrees, though his mind still wants to deny it.  “I’m alright.  It’s just the end of a long day—”  This time the burp is more of a gag, and he instinctively pulls back from the desk as he feels his stomach jump into his throat.

Barnes is on his feet, rounding the desk and pulling the trash can out of the corner.  He holds it out, his expression gentle.  “It’s ok,” he murmurs.

“I…”  T’Challa retches and doubles over the bin, though only a dribble of spit comes up.  He grips the edges until his hands shake, pushing down nausea until the pressure mounts too high and he heaves again.  He can feel vomit clotting in his throat; the pressure makes a vein twitch in his forehead.

“It’s ok,” Barnes whispers again.  He still holds the bin steady, and one of his knees presses lightly against T’Challa’s.  “Just breathe through it.”

T’Challa burps again and swallows involuntarily.  Saliva drips into the bin, clinging to his lower lip and dripping over the crumpled papers and tissues at the bottom.  “My…sincere apologies,” he mutters, unable to sit up enough to make eye contact with Barnes.

“No, it’s fine,”  Barnes relinquishes his hold on the trashcan to give T’Challa a quick pat on the shoulder.  “I’m…rusty at this, but, it’s nothing new.  People get sick.”  T’Challa feels him shrug.  “It’s fine.”

A more intense wave of nausea washes thorugh T’Challa’s chest, and the next heave is more productive.  He rests his forehead on his knuckles as his throat spasms over and over, sending partially digested lunch splashing into the bottom of the bin.  He coughs and spits and tries not to gag on the taste.

When his stomach settles down a touch, T’Challa returns the bin to the floor and rests his elbows back on the desk.  He buries his face in his hands.

“D’you, uh, want me to get someone?” Barnes asks, adjusting his grip on the back of the chair.

“No, thank you,” T’Challa says hoarsely.  “I will just…sit quietly for a moment.”

“D’you…want me to go?”

“No,” T’Challa says, shaking his head a millimeter to each side.  He’s embarrassed, but he knows he’d be worse off alone.  “Thank you.”


End file.
